


Little Annoyances

by Kitkatkimble



Series: Little Annoyances [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre is a conniving soul, Enjolras Has Feelings, F/M, M/M, Other, R is a little shit, Trans Character, no one ships e/r like Courfeyrac ships e/r
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras isn't always irritated. It's just that there's so much wrong with the world, and not enough time to fix it all, and sometimes things bother him.</p><p>Also, Grantaire drives him crazy.</p><p>(And yet he never sends him away. Funny, that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Annoyances

There are a few simple facts in Enjolras’ life.

  1.      He loves his stepfather, his sister, and his friends.
  2.      If Combeferre is actually worried about something, it is in everyone’s best interests to fix it immediately.
  3.      Courfeyrac and Cosette are not to be trusted.
  4.      He can’t reach the top shelves of anything without losing his dignity so he doesn’t even try anymore.
  5.      Grantaire drives him crazy.



It’s the latter that is proving to be troublesome.

Actually, it’s kind of a combination of the last two.

Basically, Enjolras is short. Like, really short. He is a grand total of five feet, half an inch in height, and yes, Grantaire, that half an inch matters.

Enjolras has – figuratively – grown into his height, though, so it doesn’t really bother him. He’s tall in posture, and that’s what counts. But he’s coming to discover that being short around Grantaire is tantamount to murdering whatever shred of dignity he has left.

Cut to the current scene: 8pm, informal gathering at the Corinthe for no reason better than ‘Feuilly brought cupcakes’.

Enjolras is listening in on a discussion between the person of the hour and Combeferre on the importance of internships in regards to the workforce – “They take up time I don’t have to spend on unpaid work,” Feuilly is saying, zir tone noticeably aggravated – when Grantaire leans over from the next table and tugs his sleeve.

“Hey, Orestes, I have a question. It’s for science so you have to answer it.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Yes. You know the soapbox? The one behind the bar at the Musain?”

“Yes…”

“A little birdy told me that it only gets dragged out when you’re speaking at meetings.” Grantaire’s eyes flash with wicked humour. Enjolras hates that look. It precedes a loss of dignity. “Please tell me you don’t stand on a literal soapbox when you’re giving your speeches.”

“A little birdy should learn to keep its mouth shut,” he replies, giving Musichetta a knowing look. She shrugs and grins back, and he knows the damage is done.

Grantaire laughs from deep in his throat and Enjolras hates him. “Oh my God, you do. Can’t anyone see you otherwise?”

“I don’t need them to see me, I need them to listen to me.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like we listen until you get up. Does it give you magical Amis-wrangling powers?”

“I’ll wrangle you if you’re not careful.”

“It doesn’t count if the wranglee likes it,” Lesgles says, and Grantaire neatly turns around to pour the rest of his beer into the bald man’s coffee.

Enjolras figures that’ll distract them long enough, and turns back, but finds Combeferre smirking at him. He sends her a glare and she rolls her eyes.

“Have a cupcake,” she says, and Feuilly proffers him the box. “You look like you need the sugar.”

Enjolras frowns (later, Combeferre will tell him that it was a pout, but she is a filthy liar so it doesn’t count) but takes one anyway. Feuilly’s cupcakes really are fantastic.

 

* * *

 

 

Because Grantaire is like a dog with a bone whenever it comes to driving Enjolras up the wall, he doesn’t quit it with the soapbox joke. Enjolras eventually becomes very wary about talking around him, so much that the second Grantaire sticks his head into the general vicinity (which happens with startling regularity, how much time does the guy have on his hands anyway?) Enjolras clams up and refuses to say anything, for fear of giving him an opening.

And the worst thing is, Grantaire is possibly the only one of all of the Amis who isn’t in some way, shape or form able to be manipulated.

Not that Enjolras makes a habit of manipulating his friends – don’t get him wrong – but he’s mostly capable of managing them and having them respect his wishes when it gets too much.

“You’re a control freak,” Courfeyrac says, waving at a girl as they walk towards their next class. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You are. It’s okay, I mean, you don’t actively try to control everyone around you, which is great so keep that up. But you don’t like it when you can’t predict people or have some measure of control in any given situation.”

“I don’t care about controlling situations,” he protests. “I’m friends with you, aren’t I?”

Courfeyrac laughs and a few heads turn. “Yeah, but you know me. We click, you know? You don’t ever really get surprised by me. I’m never surprised by you either, so it’s alright.”

“I suppose.” Enjolras thinks on this for a minute. “You like spontaneity, and when something happens that you don’t expect you’re happy to throw yourself into it. Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly. It’s like the Myers-Briggs test, with that bit where they measure, what is it, judging and perceiving?”

“Alright, but if someone has a preference for judging that doesn’t make them a control freak.”

“And having a preference for perceiving doesn’t make someone flighty and wild.” Courfeyrac gives Enjolras a pointed look, and he rolls his eyes in reply. “But you have to admit, you don’t like it when people knock you off balance. Which I understand, by the way, I’m not judging you. Okay, maybe a little. But you’ve so far been able to control nearly every aspect of your life to a degree, and now that things are beginning to challenge that, you’re getting irritated. You’re going to drive yourself crazy unless you learn to go with the flow a little.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

Enjolras has learnt by this point to respect Courfeyrac’s opinions when it comes to people and personalities. Even if he still disagrees, just a little, it’s more likely that Courfeyrac will be right. Besides, Enjolras is biased. And terrible at analysing people, himself or otherwise. It’s not a good combination.

“Well…” Courfeyrac thinks for a while, until they’re nearly at the law building. “I think, first of all, you need to take a step back every time something annoys you and think, ‘is this productive?’ I guarantee it, half the stuff you get irritated at isn’t something you can change, so you need to let it go.”

“You sound like Combeferre.”

“She’s got it right. You know, I think I’m onto her. The reason why she never seems worried?” Courfeyrac grins and cracks his knuckles. “It’s cause she never lets anything irritate her. If she can’t change it, it’s not worth worrying about. If she can change it, she does, and therefore doesn’t need to worry about it.”

“That sounds very English.”

“Oh, God, don’t say that. I thought it was a breakthrough.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that was an English wartime thing. Sorry.”

“Damn it!”

 

* * *

 

 

Revisiting Enjolras’ Facts of Life™, number three: Courfeyrac and Cosette are not to be trusted. Having broken half of it, the logical next step would be to go the whole way and completely ignore common sense and Science.

Science being anything Combeferre says, and honestly, what’s the difference?

He doesn’t actually end up talking to his sister until he and Grantaire have, once again, managed to fight. Rather spectacularly, actually, which is presumably why he’s standing outside Cosette’s door, in the rain, without the spare key or his phone. Or his wallet. He might have left his coat at the Musain but he’s not going to admit it.

Cosette takes one look at him, and says, “If you just ran a filter on what comes out of your mouth when you’re angry, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re not even in yet. Come on, you’ll freeze.”

He’s already frozen, but he lets Cosette drag him in and shove a blanket at him, before she wanders off towards the coffee maker.

The fight had been one of their worse ones. Grantaire had been early, for once, but it became pretty clear, pretty quickly that he was high as a kite. On what, Enjolras didn’t want to know. He hoped it was just marijuana, but he doubted it; Grantaire liked the bottle for a reason, and that was because it just erased large chucks of his life from his memory. Weed, Jehan tells him, has the opposite effect. It makes everything drag out reeeeally far, and when you’re as unhappy as Grantaire is, it’s not something you want to prolong.

And no, it hasn’t escaped Enjolras’ notice that Grantaire’s unhappy. It’s yet another thing about the man that drives him crazy; that he can be so clearly upset and yet refuse to do anything about it or, as Enjolras is well aware, allow other people to try to help him.

Enjolras tolerates a fair bit from any of the Amis, but one thing he refuses to allow is for any of them to turn up to a meeting intoxicated. He doesn’t care if they work their way through a few beers over the course of the evening, but if anyone’s high or drunk at the beginning, then they can go sleep it off elsewhere. Bahorel has been victim to this a few times, as has Jehan, and even one rather memorable moment with Eponine. Grantaire is still the main offender, although Enjolras had been pleased when it started becoming apparent that he was turning up sober more often than not.

Which is why today was such a shock.

Enjolras, naturally, called him out on it. He’s still positive that it was the right thing to do, as it was just what he had done countless other times before, and not just with Grantaire.

He may have been a bit harsher about it, but he couldn’t really tell past the sting of disappointment. After all, it was barely a week ago when he learnt that Grantaire didn’t actually hate his guts, as he had previously thought. He thought that would be a sign of things changing, but no. Not positively, at least.

“What did you do this time?” Cosette asks, and he accepts the mug of coffee from her gratefully.

“R turned up high today,” he says. “I don’t know why, I just assumed… I don’t know what I assumed. We argued, we fought, he took off, I did the same. I might have called him something unfit for present company, and he might have made some reference to control issues. It wasn’t… I don’t even know why it was so big, I mean, it’s not like it was unexpected.”

“He has been doing better lately,” Cosette says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. She’s probably more aware of what’s going on in Grantaire’s head than Enjolras is, given her friendship with Eponine. Enjolras is just plain confused by anything and everything Grantaire does. “He hasn’t been drinking as much, and he hasn’t gotten high in months. Something must have happened suddenly.”

“Eponine wasn’t there,” Enjolras adds, as though this will help. It probably would have. She would have verbally castrated him, of course, but at least he would understand a little more about the Rubik’s Cube that is Grantaire’s mind.

“You think something happened to her? Wouldn’t we know about it?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. Just that if she was there she could have said something. Unless…” He shakes his head and sighs. “I have no idea. I give up. Do you mind if I lie on your couch and try to go to sleep before giving into insomnia and watching animated movies?”

She smiles and ruffles his hair fondly. “Not at all. Are you sure you don’t want to talk anymore? We could have a D&M, braid each others hair, talk about boys.”

“I could swear that’s what we were just doing.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to play with all of this.” Cosette begins toying with the blond curls so like her own. “It’s a bit narcissistic, I guess, but it’s fun. I can do Game of Thrones hair now too. Eponine let me practice.”

Enjolras gives her a flat stare, and she smiles, innocent as you please. Cosette is good at that. It’s pretty much 100% genuine too, which is nice. Enjolras gets a lot of his hope for humanity from the way Cosette acts, like light personified.

“Alright,” he relents. “But it’s coming out tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish.”

Cosette sticks in the Lion King, because they know it off by heart and it’s not like either of them are really paying attention to it. Enjolras is gently but firmly pushed to sit on the floor, with Cosette on the couch behind him, legs curled under her as she does his hair in a complicated style that he shudders to imagine undoing.

“Why do you let him make you so angry?” Cosette asks quietly as Simba and Nala go down to the waterhole.

“I don’t know.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I just… he’s so annoying, in all the wrong ways.”

Maybe that should be another Fact of Life™: ‘Grantaire is annoying’. It’s probably much more all encompassing than ‘Grantaire drives him crazy’, although that does have its merits.

“Hello? Earth to Enjolras?” Cosette tugs at his hair, and he looks up at her, blinking owlishly. “You spaced out.”

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Euro for your thoughts?”

“Make that five and we’ll talk.”

After having a quick tissue breath after Mufasa’s death, Cosette prods him again. “You know, you could try talking to him. Did that even cross your mind?”

“All we do is argue.”

“It takes two to argue. Be kind. Don’t do anything to set him off. You have the potential to be great friends, I think, but you’re both rather extreme and you need to stop letting him get to you.”

Enjolras sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s starting to feel tired, but not like he wants to sleep, which is irritating him further. “I can’t help it. Everything he does drives me mad, even if it’s just sitting quietly being a model citizen; which he never is, so I get annoyed because he’s acting funny and he doesn’t want my help.”

“Have you offered?”

“I – wait, what?”

“Have you offered?” Cosette asks patiently. “Have you gone up to him, _calmly and rationally,_ and told him that you want to help him?”

“I…”

Conspicuous silence.

Thoughts buffer.

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Almost definitely.”

“Oh my God.”

Cosette pats him gently on the head. “There, your hair’s finished. Feeling any better?”

“I feel like a moron.”

“Don’t worry, darling.” She moves to sit next to him, reaching for the chocolate bar he’s so far successfully monopolised. “We all have our stupid moments. Some are just more stupid than others.”

“Thanks.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I threw the soapbox at him.”

“Enjolras!”

“It missed!”

“And you wonder why he’s pissed at you?”

 

* * *

 

 

He sleeps in late the next day, which is unfortunate because it means that it gives Cosette enough time to guilt him into going out to lunch with her.

“I haven’t spent enough time with you lately,” she says, and Enjolras calls bullshit.

“I just kept you up for six hours last night.”

“You owe me.”

He can’t really argue with that, so he just sighs and collapses back onto the couch as she goes to shower.

He’s just about to try to untangle the elaborate hairdo that somehow stayed in place last night when the door rings. Because he is a good brother, he answers it.

Because he is an idiot, he doesn’t check who it is first.

“Enjolras?”

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire is staring at his hair, and he touches it self consciously, feeling the braids beneath his fingers. “Cosette did it last night. I, um…”

“It’s fine. I mean, it looks great. On you. Objectively speaking, I mean, I don’t – well, maybe a little – that is, unless you don’t like it. Which you should. Not that you have to – ”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras blurts out, effectively halting Grantaire midsentence. “I shouldn’t have thrown the soapbox at you, no matter how annoying you were being.”

Grantaire looks relieved for a second, then his eyes shift to something more dark and sardonic. “I’m glad to know that you have such a high opinion of me.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I just – ”

Grantaire shakes his head, making his curls bounce around, and Enjolras follows the motion with his eyes. He suddenly looks tired. It makes Enjolras’ chest feel uncomfortably tight, and he shifts his shirt to see if it helps. It doesn’t. “Don’t worry about it, Achilles. Is Cosette here?”

“Yes, she’s just in the shower.” Enjolras holds the door open. “Here, come in. Do you want me to leave?”

“No, I just wanted to nick one of her books.” He ducks through the door, despite the fact that the top of the door is a good twenty centimetres from his head, in what seems like an attempt to make himself smaller. Because Enjolras is the audience, it doesn’t work.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Grantaire gives him a strange little smirk. “When have I ever?”

 

* * *

 

 

Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras doesn’t enjoy arguing with people. Everything would be so much easier if he didn’t have to, but because people are stubborn and he is assertive, arguments are inevitable.

And by people, he means Grantaire.

Which is why he is starting to get a little suspicious. Grantaire hasn’t started an argument with him in nearly a month, now, since just after Enjolras threw that soapbox at him. (If Enjolras had known that that was all it took to get some peace during meetings, he might have done it sooner.

And by sooner, he means never.)

Because as bizarre as it is, he actually misses Grantaire’s acerbic commentary. He misses having someone rip apart his speeches and challenge his opinions; God help him, he even misses the look in Grantaire’s eyes whenever Enjolras scoots closer to better hear him over the noise of Les Amis. It’s not right, and it makes Enjolras nervous, because he _can’t control it,_ and Courfeyrac’s little bit of psychoanalysis has been stuck in his mind.

“Talk to him,” Cosette says as she follows Marius out after a meeting. She doesn’t normally attend, because she thinks it gets a little too dry sometimes (logistics remain a dull but necessary affair), but whenever there’s a new issue she pokes her head in. “Play nice. Don’t drop by my place tonight if it goes wrong, I’ll be busy.”

“Cosette!”

She laughs and darts out, smiling widely up at Marius. Enjolras would think it cute if he weren’t so busy trying to bleach his mind from the images.

He bustles around for a bit, tidying up the tables and fretting about this, that and the other thing. Combeferre, the superheroine she is, leaves him a thermos of coffee with a sticky note saying ‘If you aren’t asleep by twelve I will switch it to decaf’. How well she knows him.

Grantaire is perched on a bar stool, arm wrestling with Bahorel and losing spectacularly. He’s halfway to drunk already, as the neat array of bottles attests, but he doesn’t seem to be in particularly depressed spirits, so Enjolras takes a deep breath and summons his People Face.

His People Face was actually named by Joly, who commented one meeting a year or so ago that Enjolras had two faces: his Private Face, which is apparently soft and caring and all that jazz, and his People Face, which is charming and charismatic and generally everything Enjolras is sure he is not. But, if Joly says so, it must be true, so he goes with it.

He has a lot of time for Joly.

“Saint-Just, how kind of you to grace us with your presence,” Grantaire says.

“That’s creative, I wouldn’t have thought of _that_ one,” he says dryly, in response to yet another of Grantaire’s attempts to guess his first name. It had started off seriously, but since has just dissolved into historical and classical references.

Bahorel snorts and raises her arm again. “Come on, R, one more for good luck. Or do you need some more liquid courage?”

Grantaire shakes his hair out of his face and grins wickedly. “You insult me, my lady. One more.”

He cracks his knuckles, then offers his hand to Enjolras, his grin widening. “Wish me luck?”

Enjolras doesn’t know what possesses him, but he takes Grantaire’s hand. The brunette’s eye light up in surprised pleasure, then shocked delight when Enjolras raises it and kisses his knuckles.

Bahorel wolf whistles, which spurs Grantaire into action. He nearly yanks his hand from Enjolras’ grip, spins gracefully on his bar stool, and leans on his elbow. “Put your money where your mouth is, Bahorel.”

Bahorel stretches her arm, rolls her shoulder, then copies Grantaire. “Enjolras, ref for us.”

“Alright. Three… two… one… go.”

This match takes longer, but after a few minutes of back and forth struggling, the muscles hiding beneath Grantaire’s shirt tighten and he slams Bahorel’s hand down.

“Victory!” he cries, a hand punching the air. “Take that, your highness!”

Bahorel winces, shaking out her wrist. “Nice one. Although, to be fair, I didn’t have our fearless leader’s blessing.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Enjolras informs her seriously, and she laughs and tosses her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Sure thing, blondie. Later, R. I’ll see you tomorrow for the tourney, yeah?”

Grantaire nods, and they wave goodbye to Bahorel.

“So, what’s got you in such a good mood?” he asks, and Enjolras frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire looks pointedly to his hand and then raises an eyebrow. “So you normally kiss people just to wish them luck in arm wrestling matches?”

“It was just on the hand! Did you not want me to?” Enjolras isn’t getting flustered; he’s _Enjolras,_ he doesn’t _get_ flustered. He gets ‘ruthlessly efficient’ when he’s stressed. Grantaire’s words, not his. Funny, that.

“No, I did – well, not exactly, but I didn’t mind it – I mean, not that it was – anyway, I just wasn’t expecting it. Might want to warn me next time, Apollo, before you give me a heart attack.”

“Oh.” More like heart-attack-inducing shock, then, rather than delighted. Enjolras really isn’t good at reading people; he should probably just stop trying. “Well, I just wanted to say that I know something’s wrong, and if you want to talk to me about it, I’ve always got time for my friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Grantaire folds his arms and just watches him. “Are we friends?”

That throws Enjolras a bit, because although Grantaire does, in fact, drive him crazy, he’s always thought of him as a friend. Even for the long period where he thought the other man hated him. Now he’s seriously beginning to think that maybe his conclusion wasn’t as ridiculous as Grantaire had made it sound when denying it. “Well, I thought we were, but if you disagree then I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

“What? I – Jesus, this is ridiculous.” Grantaire leans on the bar top once again and runs a hand over his face. “Let’s try this again. You consider me a friend?”

“…yes?”

Grantaire looks honestly set back. Enjolras doesn’t think that friendship is that radical a concept, but then again, he’s been wrong before. Maybe Grantaire does hate him.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, and Enjolras startles. Grantaire hastens to explain, “You were wearing your ‘Grantaire hates me’ face.”

“I _have_ a ‘Grantaire hates me’ face?”

“Yep. It’s all sad and pouty, like a little two year old who isn’t allowed to have any more candy.”

Enjolras flips him off.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras’ Facts of Life™ seem to be a common theme lately, so it follows that the next to come into play is number one: he loves his stepfather, his sister, and his friends.

“Sorry, Papa, I was busy doing some stuff with Courfeyrac and Combeferre,” he says, pushing the door to his bedroom shut with a foot and juggling the books in his hands, his phone balanced on his shoulder.

“Not to worry.” Renard Chatêlet, his stepfather, sounds cheerful and not at all bothered. “How are you, first of all?”

They exchange small talk for a while, as Renard updates him on his wine business – “Terrible harvest this year, but you know how it is.” – and he talks about Les Amis. Eventually, though, they get around to the actual point of the call.

“Are you coming down south for the holidays?” Renard asks. Enjolras has put his phone on speaker as he cleans his room, to save his arm the trouble of holding the phone to his ear for the length of their conversation.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “Maybe. It depends how busy it gets up here and if Cosette decides to drag me away anywhere.”

“Well, if you have the time – ”

The door to his room swings open and the Devil himself sticks his head in, grin already forming on his face. “I thought I heard talking! Hello, M’sieur Chatêlet, how are you?”

“Hello, Courfeyrac,” says Renard, amused. “I’m sure I’ve told you to call me Renard before.”

“Habits die hard.” Courfeyrac drops down onto Enjolras’ bed, nicking one of his law textbooks and flicking through idly. “Trying to convince Enjolras to visit you in your old age?”

Enjolras throws a sweater at him, which only makes him laugh harder. “Ignore him, he’s being a nuisance.”

“Well, it’s an open invitation. Courfeyrac, you’re welcome to come if you can bring my stubborn son along with you.”

“Papa!”

“Well, what with the dramas going on up here, I don’t think we’ll be able to even get him on a plane,” Courfeyrac says, and then the cat’s out of the bag.

“Dramas?” Renard’s tone is still light, amused, but there’s an intelligent edge to it, like he knows something more than he lets on. “Involving my son? What a surprise.”

Courfeyrac nearly pisses himself laughing, leaving Enjolras to sputter and then fold his arms, glaring at the treacherous phone. “I really appreciate your love and support, Papa.”

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac says, ignoring Enjolras entirely and picking up the phone to chat directly into it. “He won’t be able to come down. But I do seem to recall someone saying that they would love to visit Paris again, but they’ve never had the excuse.”

“Courf – ”

“What a marvellous idea. I think I shall.”

“Oh, honestly.” Enjolras puts his face in his hands, only coming up again to flip Courfeyrac the bird and then shove him from the room. “Papa, if you don’t want to come up, it’s alright. I am perfectly okay with making time to fly down.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Renard sounds more serious now, and Enjolras can feel the impending weight of their next conversation hanging in the air. “Now, what are these dramas I’m hearing about?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Really…”

He’s doing the Voice. How is Enjolras supposed to say no to the Voice?

“I’m just having some problems with Grantaire, it’s fine. It’ll work out. It always does.”

“Ah, yes. Grantaire.”

Somehow, Renard manages to make one word seem filled with infinite knowledge and wisdom. The only other person Enjolras knows who can do that is Combeferre, who is famous for her short slap-downs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras asks, aggrieved. “I don’t talk about him _that_ much.”

Renard is conspicuously silent.

“You’re as bad as Courfeyrac.” He sighs and collapses backwards onto his bed. “Alright, go ahead. I know you want to lecture me.”

“You clearly care a great deal about him,” his stepfather says slowly, picking his words carefully. “Just make sure you don’t lose your patience with him because of anything petty. From what you’ve told me – and yes, you have told me a lot, don’t deny it – Grantaire sounds like he deliberately antagonises you to distract you from whatever the real issue is. You need to keep your focus and your temper for long enough to get to the real problem; stop getting so worked up about the little things.”

Renard pauses, before adding, “And it’s okay not to know what’s going on. Confusion is a natural feeling, it’s okay.”

“Courfeyrac said something similar a few months ago,” Enjolras admits.

“He’s a smart boy, is our young Courfeyrac. Now, remember to wear your coat (“Papa, it’s the middle of summer!”) and don’t talk back to your elders. I have faith in you, and I’m sure you’ll sort out whatever it is between you and Grantaire.”

“Thank you. Take care.”

“You too. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Enjolras is about to hang up when his stepfather adds, “Oh, and I’ve booked a plane ticket for Saturday morning.”

“Papa!”

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras doesn’t have a car. Instead, he’s in possession of the world’s worst Vespa. It was a birthday present from Combeferre and Courfeyrac one year, and now fondly known as the Rustbucket. It’s a rather unfortunate shade of red.

Obviously, he can’t pick his stepfather up from the airport on a Vespa, and he damn well isn’t going to ask _Courfeyrac_ to drive him, so he sweet talks Combeferre into letting him borrow her car.

“You can borrow the car,” she allows, “but on one condition. I drive. You are not allowed behind the wheel.”

“Glad to know how far our friendship goes.”

“I would follow you into a revolution,” Combeferre says serenely. “But under no circumstances would I trust you to drive my car without crashing or giving Monsieur Chatêlet a heart attack.”

“I seem to be giving everyone heart attacks these days.”

“You have a particular brand of charm,” she says generously, which is Combeferrese for ‘You have utterly no tact and although you are mostly polite, you are scarily intense’. The ‘but we love you for it’ is unspoken.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

So Combeferre comes to the airport with him to meet his stepfather, who is thankfully staying in a hotel, because Enjolras doesn’t think he could deal with having both Courfeyrac and Renard in the apartment to cause chaos.

“I hate this airport,” Enjolras mutters as they navigate the Charles de Gaulle.

“We all do,” Combeferre assures him. “Look, there he is.”

Enjolras doesn’t throw himself at his stepfather. He just… greets him very enthusiastically. It’s reciprocated, though, so it’s all good.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring a hotel boy hat,” Renard says, kissing the top of Enjolras’ head. “I’ve always wanted to be greeted by a pompous and dolled up chauffeur. And Combeferre, I almost didn’t recognise you! You must have grown twenty centimetres since I last saw you.”

“I’m sure I’ve stopped growing by now,” Combeferre says, kissing Renard’s cheeks. Enjolras scowls; Combeferre is an amazing six foot two in height, which is always a source for consternation and mild jealousy. See Enjolras’ Facts of Life™ No. 4. “Enjolras would have pulled out his bell boy suit, but he’s not driving. I could steal someone’s jacket, if you want.”

“I’m sure you could just smile at them and they’d give it to you willingly.”

The drive back is terrible, because it’s a drive through Paris and Parisian traffic is always terrible. But Enjolras has both his stepfather and his best friend for company, so it could be a lot worse.

It could be with Grantaire, for one.

(He stamps down on the irrational feeling of disappointment that it isn’t.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Enjolras, I’ve been thinking,” says Courfeyrac.

“God help us,” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac ignores him. “I think we should introduce your dad to Les Amis. Invite him to one of the meetings or something. You know he’d love it.”

Enjolras turns to face Courfeyrac, clasping his shoulders and looking him in the eyes. “Courfeyrac, you are my oldest friend, and I love you, but you have Ideas. Some Ideas are very good. Les Amis was a Very Good Idea. Marius was a Sort Of Okay Idea. The Cup Song was a Very Bad Idea. Sadly for you, most of your Ideas are Very Bad. Now, believe me when I say that this is going to be a Very Bad Idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Great idea, Courfeyrac!”

“We aren’t doing anything on Tuesday, are we, ‘Chetta?”

“I can mix drinks.”

“Under no circumstances is Lesgles to mix drinks.”

Courfeyrac smiles smugly at him, and Enjolras sighs. “Alright. Fine. I will warn him about the impending heart attack. But you all need to be on your best behaviour, or I will do something drastic.”

“What’s drastic?” Grantaire asks. “Because your drastic and our drastic are very different things.”

“I will have Combeferre tell me who you all voted for in the last election.”

“Alright, guys, straighten your ties!” Joly says quickly, clapping his hands. “Feuilly, stand up straight. Eponine, your hair’s coming undone. Grantaire, put that bottle down.”

Enjolras smiles smugly at Courfeyrac, who is a very amusing shade of chartreuse.

“Control freak,” the brunette mutters, as if trying to regain a little of the composure he’s lost. Needless to say, it doesn’t work.

“Hey, Euryalus,” Grantaire says, sidling up to him.

“Seriously?” Enjolras asks. “That’s scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit.”

“Don’t judge me. Anyway, I have a question.”

“How can I help you?”

Grantaire shifts where he stands. “Do you want me there?”

Enjolras blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when your dad comes, do you want me there? I can bugger off, if you prefer. I know you want your dad to like us.”

It takes a while for Enjolras to parse that, simply because he can’t catch onto Grantaire’s insane logic. “Of course I want you there!”

Clearly, this was not the reaction that Grantaire was expecting. He replies with his usual intelligence and eloquence. “Huh?”

“Of course I want you there,” Enjolras says, slower this time. “I thought we cleared this up. I consider you a friend. You’re one of Les Amis. Papa’s going to love you, anyway; you’re clever and sarcastic and you have infinitely more appreciation for wine and art than I can dredge up. Why would I not want you there?”

Grantaire blinks once, twice. Then he raises a hand. “Uh, question?”

“Yes?”

“Are you high?”

“R!”

If anything, the use of Grantaire’s nickname sends him further into whatever twisted spiral he’s worked himself into. (Enjolras doesn’t know why. Grantaire’s nickname is a pun. Enjolras _loves_ puns. Les Amis de l’ABC may have been Courfeyrac’s idea, but the name was all his.)

“Give me a minute, Alexandre,” Grantaire says, reaching for the nearest chair and dropping into it.

Enjolras’ world freezes.

 

* * *

 

 

But first, a little bit of history.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras is trans.

It’s not something he tells everyone he meets, but most of his friends know, and his stepfather certainly does.

He doesn’t hide it; he’s an activist, and he’s an advocate for all sorts of human rights, so it’s natural that LGBTQIA* rights would be on his list of Things To Be Angry About. He is well known for being a spokesperson for all sorts of people, particularly the voiceless, so whenever he speaks about trans rights, no one automatically assumes that he’s trans himself.

Of course, he’s pretty sure that a lot of people have gathered as much from inference, but when he does openly mention it or lead a speech with it, it never garners much of a reaction. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Enjolras is trans.

Anyway, when he was fifteen, he decided to change his first name. He couldn’t do it legally – although the day he turned eighteen his stepfather took him down to get it changed – but to the people who mattered, he went from Heloise to Alexandre.

It’s not like he goes by his first name anyway, but it was a way of affirming his identity, and it was as important to him as Cosette’s wardrobe is to her. It signifies something greater; a way of accepting himself and who he identified as.

The only person who calls him Alexandre is his stepfather, and, very rarely, Cosette. To everyone else, he is Enjolras, because last names neatly avoid the whole gender identity thing.

A few other people know his first name; Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan. But they don’t call him by it, pretty much solely out of habit; he had been going by Enjolras for a while before he decided to change his first name.  Jehan sometimes calls him Alexandre, but it’s mostly for poetic value and affirmation. Or something like that. Jehan has a way with words that even Enjolras sometimes can’t follow completely.

His mother is a separate bit of backstory entirely.

Suffice it to say, one of her favourite things to say was, in fact, ‘Give me a minute’. It usually meant, ‘I’m too busy right now to do whatever you want me to do this time, go away’, and Enjolras has taken it to mean as such.

For a few months, ‘Give me a minute, Heloise’ became ‘Give me a minute, Alexandre’, for which Enjolras was marginally grateful for at the time, because it meant that his mother had taken notice of at least one thing in his life. Then there had been a lot of drama, and a lot of pain that Enjolras doesn’t care to revisit, and then it was just him and his stepfather.

 

* * *

 

Cut to the present.

“Enjolras?”

He blinks, then draws up a chair for himself, collapsing into it much like Grantaire.

Who is currently wearing a look of concern that makes his sea coloured eyes stand out, and the contrast of his hair even greater, and _oh._

Enjolras can’t breathe.

“Enjolras, are you alright?”

Suddenly Jehan is there, darling wonderful Jehan, who takes his hand and squeezes, murmuring the odd bits of rhyme and verse as Enjolras feels his breath speed up. It gives him something to focus on, the wash of words over his head as he lets Jehan’s voice fill his mind and thoughts.

“I don’t know what happened, we were just talking, then I spaced out a little and he just…” Grantaire sounds panicked. Grantaire shouldn’t sound panicked. Grantaire never cares about anything enough to get panicked over it.

“It’s a panic attack.” Is that Joly or Lesgles? Oh, God, Enjolras can’t even tell. “You need to give him space or he’s going to get worse. Trust me on this.” It’s Joly, it has to be.

He can feel Jehan’s hand trail along his arm to cup his face, and he’s grateful for the path of contact. “Enjolras, it’s alright. You’re with friends. I want you to try and match my breathing, okay?”

He follows Jehan’s slow, steady breaths, and feels himself coming back to himself.

He opens his eyes to see Jehan crouching in front of him, Grantaire hovering nervously behind him. The rest of his friends are a few feet away, being kept back by a glance from Combeferre. He’s always amused by Combeferre’s strange command over anyone in her vicinity, and now is no exception. The normality of it helps calm him further.

“You feeling better, sweetheart?” Jehan asks.

He nods. He isn’t really, but he’s had time to compartmentalise his new revelations ( _Oh._ ) in order to deal with them later.

Jehan leans back, and Grantaire leans forward, movements in tandem.

“Are you okay? Was it something I did?” Grantaire asks, but the words don’t spill out of his mouth like they usually do. ( _Tumbling, always tumbling out in their haste to be said._ )

“You guessed it,” Enjolras says.

“I…. what?”

He smiles. “You actually got it. My name.”

“Your…” Grantaire’s expression clears. “Alexandre? Your name is Alexandre?”

Enjolras nods.

A slow smile spreads across Grantaire’s face. ( _Eyes twinkling, a pathetic glass screen against the emotions enclosed within._ ) “I knew I’d get it eventually.”

Enjolras can only laugh. “It took you a while.”

“I was working my way through the centuries, give me some credit.” Grantaire scoots a little closer. “I didn’t expect it to be quite that surprising, though.”

Enjolras isn’t thinking about it. If he thinks about it he will either have another panic attack, or a cigarette, and he doesn’t particularly want either. “I’m not the only surprising one around here.”

Grantaire’s smile is blinding. ( _Oh._ )

 

* * *

 

 

He has never really considered how amazing the ceiling is. It’s a wonderful invention, pure innovation, and he should go and research some architecture history.

There’s a knock on the door, and then it creaks open, revealing Combeferre carrying a tray. Courfeyrac is peeking from behind her, and Enjolras stifles the swell of affection that rises in him.

“Hello,” Combeferre says, coming in and setting the tray down. There are mugs of hot chocolate arranged neatly on it, with a plate of Feuilly’s shortbread. Damn, can Feuilly cook. Enjolras is pretty sure Courfeyrac has proposed at least three times thanks to zir cooking alone.

“Hello,” Enjolras replies.

“We’re having a midnight snack and sleeping through our morning classes tomorrow,” Combeferre informs him. “I’ve emailed the professors, they know we’re ill.”

“Alright.”

He sits up, and Courfeyrac slides in next to him, an arm slipping around his shoulders as smooth as water. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Combeferre sits down on his other side, her skirt rumpling as she peels her shoes off and stretches her legs. She leans her weight against Enjolras as she curls her legs beneath her, and he lets her, relishing in the contact.

“No.”

They sit in silence.

He curls up, resting his head on his knees. “I never thought this would be a problem.”

Courfeyrac rubs his shoulder consolingly, and he leans into the touch instinctively, like an attention starved kitten. It’s a metaphor that Cosette is fond of using, and apparently it has sunk so deep into Enjolras’ subconscious that he’s started using it too.

“I’m so fucked.”

The double entendre slips out, and he pales, clasping his hands over his mouth.

Combeferre notices his distress and frowns. “You don’t – ”

“No,” Enjolras says, cutting her off. “No, I don’t. That’s… that’s kind of the problem.”

He can feel his heart rate speeding up, the first sign of a panic attack.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac notice as well. Combeferre, in traditional Combeferrese manner, quickly grasps his hands and begins talking.

“Alright, let’s look at this logically. You like Grantaire as a friend. You are also in love with him. Am I correct?”

He nods.

“So, the two questions that we need to have answered before all others are; does Grantaire consider you a friend, and is he interested in you romantically?”

“I don’t know, how am I supposed to know? The man’s brain is a bag full of cats.”

Courfeyrac speaks up. “Well, I know he looks up to you a lot, and he likes being in your company, so I’d say that he considers you a friend.”

Combeferre actually takes out her notebook and begins writing in her – perfectly legible, damn her – personal shorthand. “So, the only obstacle is whether or not he’s interested in you romantically. That can be broken down into several components.”

“Is he romantically attracted to men?” Courfeyrac starts, before answering himself. “Yes. World’s biggest bicycle that one.”

Combeferre regards him over her glasses.

“Second biggest.”

“Another question,” she continues, “is whether or not he is aware of and comfortable with your asexuality.”

“That’s what worries me.” ‘Worries’ is nowhere near the right word, but Enjolras doesn’t dare use anything more accurate. He likes to compartmentalise every little thing, and then draw them out or forget them as necessary.

Courfeyrac seems to realise this, and promptly pushes Enjolras’ knees down and collapses over his legs. He lets out a pained wheeze upon coming into contact with Enjolras’ rather bony knees, then grins up at him. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Courfeyrac shrugs and grins wider. He looks quite demented. “Just saying.”

“You,” says Combeferre, very seriously, “are utterly full of shit.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on the door, and it’s a sign of how pathetic Enjolras is that he recognises the pattern instantly. Grantaire has a strange way of knocking; it’s almost like he’s playing drums on the door.

“Hi, Alexandre,” he says when Enjolras opens it. Enjolras really likes the way the word slides off his tongue. “You busy?”

“No, come in.”

Grantaire. In his apartment? Some part of Enjolras is wondering what brought this on. Another, smaller, guiltier part is wondering how drunk Grantaire had to be to work up the courage.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks, fiddling for a moment before dropping down onto the sofa.

Enjolras blinks. “Of course.”

There’s that damned smirk again. Enjolras hates that smirk. It’s the smirk that leads to fire and blood, he just knows it. “You know, contrary to popular belief, you are still human. So as one human to another, let me tell you that that answer is bullshit.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, you’re not. Look, there’s no ‘of course’ with your health. Trust me, I should know. In fact, whenever someone says ‘of course I’m fine’, or ‘of course everything’s alright’, they’re generally lying. And arrogant. And more than a little self-centred.”

That fires him up again. “You think I’m a liar?”

“Yes,” says Grantaire flatly. “I think you are. I know when someone is lying to themselves. I’ve done enough of it to recognise when someone else is. I don’t know what you’re telling yourself, or what you’re trying to prove, but you had a panic attack yesterday. Triggered by your _name._ You said it was just surprise, but a little birdy sent me a text telling me – well, it doesn’t really matter, but the fact is, you need to stop with the ‘of course’ and more with the ‘no, you’re right Grantaire, I’m not fine, and I’m going to find someone to talk to so that I can be’.”

It’s quite possibly the most enlightening thing Enjolras has ever heard from Grantaire’s mouth.

“I talked with Courf and Combeferre.”

“I got that.” Grantaire waves his phone. Trust Courfeyrac to be a little birdy. “Doesn’t sound like the problem is solved, though. I mean, look at you. You look like a wreck. A very good looking wreck, but still a wreck.”

“Oh, shut up,” Enjolras grumbles, running his hands through his hair self-consciously. It just makes it stand out even more and he looks like a human dandelion. “Look, I’m not fine, alright. I’m not. But it’s just something that needs time.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“Time and a bit of courage,” he amends. “But I’m dealing with it.”

They stare at each other for a minute before Grantaire raises his hands and leans back. “Alright. Whatever you say, boss. I know this is kind of weird, but I’m the expert in fucking things up, so if you need to talk… well. If you want. I mean, you don’t have to, you’ve got Courfeyrac and Combeferre for that, but. I understand. Anyway. I’ll see myself out.”

“No, wait!” Enjolras jumps up and grabs Grantaire’s wrist. “I’m, um, supposed to be going out for lunch with my dad in half an hour, so if you want…”

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, “are you asking me to have lunch with you and your dad?”

“Yes?” He realises that he phrased it as a question and repeats, stronger, “Yes, that is what I’m asking.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You will?”

Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras is floating. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? That he’d like me? Unless you were lying and you secretly have another, even more insufferable Enjolras for a father.”

“I’m not insufferable. You’re insufferable.”

“Another prime example of your shining wit.”

“Oh, go away, you’re being horrible.” Enjolras throws the nearest book at him, which turns out to be a rather interesting philosophy text that Combeferre has been egging him to read; he’s only half-way through, but he figures it will amuse Grantaire. “I’m going to go make myself look less like a wreck. Sit down, don’t touch my coffee, and be a good little student and make your own entertainment.”

“I don’t think you have the right to call anyone little,” he replies dryly, and Enjolras just throws his hands in the air and stalks off.

 

* * *

 

Renard and Grantaire get along like a house on fire.

It’s actually ridiculous how much they take to each other, Enjolras isn’t even kidding. It’s almost as though they knew each other in a previous life or some equally inane idiom, and just decided to renew their acquaintance.

They’re discussing art at the moment; something about Impressionism vs. Expressionism, which means nothing to Enjolras but evidently means a great deal to them. Enjolras knows that Grantaire’s personal style is actually very cartoon like, but his art pieces he turns in for class are all over the place. Most of them are very good, there’s no denying that, but there’s no cohesiveness or personality in them like there is in his sketchbook filled with doodles.

“I could never get Alexandre interested in art,” Renard says sadly, shaking his head at Enjolras. His eyes are laughing. “Like his mother, in that respect. It’s good to know that he’s made friends with someone who can educate him on the finer things in life.”

Grantaire looks like he’s just been given a gold medal at the Olympics. “Enjolras, you hear that? Now you have to come to museums with me, it has been commanded by a higher power.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “That’s a load of Pollocks.”

Renard groans at the awful pun, but Grantaire looks nothing short of awestruck. “That was terrible, Antinous. That was completely and utterly terrible.”

Enjolras is only a little proud of himself after that.

Lunch passes faster than he thought it would. When it comes to small discussions, he honestly prefers to sit back and listen. He doesn’t like leading a conversation, because it’s vastly more interesting to sit back and pay attention to others’ opinions and learn about their perspectives. Combeferre has teased him about this, comparing it to sizing up an enemy to better dismember them, but he thinks that’s a bit extreme.

“So, on a daily basis, how much would you say my son terrorises you?” Renard says, his poker face pristine. Grantaire chokes on his beef.

“Only about sixty percent of the time,” he replies after he’s finished making dying whale noises. Enjolras isn’t even mad, he’s just impressed. “I get Fridays and mornings off.”

“You get until eleven in the morning off,” Enjolras corrects. He learnt long ago to just roll with whatever his stepfather plots. “I start haranguing you at five past.”

“Fair point. I get until eleven off. And public holidays.”

“But not QuatorzeJuillet.”

“Okay, fine. But I do get Christmas off.”

Enjolras is about to speak, but Renard beats him to the punch. “If you can get Alexandre to take the day off with you, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

He has a horrible idea of where this is going.

“Papa, you wouldn’t.”

Judging by the look on Grantaire’s face, he’s picked it up as well. “M’sieur Chatêlet, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Renard leans closer, and in a dramatic stage whisper, says, “ _Baby pictures._ ”

“You don’t even have my baby pictures!”

“ _Pre-teen pictures._ ”

“Papa!”

 

* * *

 

 

His stepfather insists on taking Grantaire to a number of exhibitions across Paris, and while Enjolras is a good son – for the most part – he does not have the appreciation or patience for anything longer than a quick circuit of one wing of the Louvre, let alone half the damn museum.

How Grantaire manages it, he has no idea.

“I’m not coming with you because I know you, and I know you’ll make some crack about masterpieces and marble and I will be forced to throw another soapbox at you,” he says flatly when Grantaire asks him about it before wandering off with his father.

“Fair point. Have fun! I’d get my hands on those pictures quick, if I were you.”

Enjolras is left wondering why exactly he is half in love with Grantaire. It’s certainly not his honest and charitable soul.

Because he is only half in love with Grantaire. In a fit of poetic inspiration, he realises that he will only ever be half in love with Grantaire until Grantaire makes up the other half himself. It’s a nice thought. Cripplingly terrifying, though.

Oddly, he feels the need to share it. Before he even realises, he’s sent off a text to Jehan – no names, but otherwise complete.

Jehan promptly replies with a quick rebuttal.

 **Jehan:** enjolras, are you alright?

 **Enjolras:** It just crossed my mind and I thought you would appreciate it.

Thankfully, Jehan doesn’t press the issue. Enjolras knew there was a reason that they got along so well.

 **Jehan:** we’ll make a poet of you yet

His phone rings with another text.

 **Combeferre:** How did lunch go?

Enjolras doesn’t even bother texting, he just calls her and puts the phone to his ear as he begins the downward adventure into the metro.

“Well?” Combeferre asks. There’s a chattering noise in the background that sounds almost like the Musain, but marginally quieter.

“It went well,” he says. “They… it was bizarre. They actually got on amazingly.”

 “Good.” Combeferre sounds oddly smug. It’s not something he typically associates with her, but she really does sound like the cat that got the cream.

It clicks.

“You were the little birdy, not Courfeyrac, weren’t you?” he asks, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, seriously, Combeferre, that hasn’t worked since we were five, don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what I mean.”

He feels rather than hears her shrug, and she says, “I can try. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Of course it worked, you set it up. I bet you knew I’d invite him along for lunch, too, didn’t you?” He does laugh then, a fond little thing that makes Combeferre snort. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What can I say?” she says, with that little voice-shrug again. “I spend a lot of time with Courfeyrac. He’s bound to rub off on me sooner or later.”

Enjolras just shakes his head and hangs up.

When Combeferre worries about something, fix it. Luckily for him, she’s very good at fixing things herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Les Amis schedule the party for Tuesday. By Les Amis, he means Joly, Courfeyrac, and Musichetta. Because it is one of Courfeyrac’s Destined-To-Be Very Bad Ideas, Enjolras refuses to have anything to do with it short of convincing his stepfather to meet his friends. It doesn’t take long. In fact, Renard spends more time convincing Enjolras that yes, he is interested in what Enjolras’ friends are doing, and no, he won’t look on Facebook.

“If anything goes wrong,” Enjolras says as he opens the door to his and Courfeyrac’s flat, “I will not be held responsible and it doesn’t come out of my pocket money.”

“You don’t even get pocket money anymore.”

“The point still stands.”

The first person to greet Renard is Courfeyrac, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He greets him much the same way Enjolras did, except with a cheerful, “Hello, M’sieur Chatêlet!”

To his credit, Renard doesn’t even blink. “Renard, please. It’s good to see you, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac promptly drags him off to introduce him to each of the group. Joly, Lesgles and Musichetta have commandeered the kitchen, and are making dopey eyes at each other between almost-dropped plates and tumblers of alcohol. Feuilly is in the middle of a debate with Bahorel, who has dragged Eponine over for moral support; Enjolras watches as Feuilly looks around wildly before grabbing the nearest person – Marius – to even the footing. Jehan and Cosette are drawing in a corner, and unless he is very much mistaken, there are six empty glasses scattered around them.

Enjolras moves away and goes to sit between Combeferre and Grantaire.

“It’ll be fine,” Grantaire says cheerfully, tossing back the last of whatever colourful cocktail he’s drinking. Lesgles, unfortunately, has been mixing drinks, and while they do taste alright – even Enjolras admits that Lesgles makes amazing cocktails – there’s usually something ever so slightly wrong with them. Nothing that anyone can pinpoint with any precision, but still on the edge of the senses.

Then the alcohol kicks in and no one really bothers to correct him.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried.”

“R, he’s my dad, and he’s never met my friends. It’s a bit of a trying situation.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. He’s actually very good at it. “You think he won’t like us?”

“I think he’ll leave me and adopt you lot, to be honest.”

Combeferre lets out one of her colossal snorts, and Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Please. He adores you, and you know it.”

Grantaire laughs at that before waving at Lesgles, who nods and beckons him over. “Excuse me, lads. Bartender’s calling.”

Enjolras watches him go with only a twinge of disappointment. He thought Grantaire was cutting back, but judging by the sway in the man’s step, he’s already downed his fair share of cocktails. It was only to be expected, but Enjolras has always placed an unreasonable amount of faith in Grantaire, despite how often it’s proved misplaced.

The atmosphere of the party (if it can really be called that, as Courfeyrac had pointed out. It’s not a party unless there’s cake.) is light and friendly, as Les Amis settles into the familiar ebb and flow of discourse. When Enjolras looks around for his stepfather, he sees him chatting intently with Eponine and Cosette, and he laughs. Despite not having any particular connection to Cosette – her half-brother’s stepfather is a bit of a stretch – they have many traits in common and get along well. Eponine is usually prickly, but warms quickly to anyone Cosette likes. He’s is glad. He knows that his stepfather and Eponine are on such different social levels that normally, Eponine would dismiss Renard completely as yet another of the elite that screw her over on a daily basis.

That makes him think about his causes, and how little work he’s been doing for Les Amis lately, and he sinks into thinking mode.

“Not that I want to interrupt your thousand-yard-stare,” Combeferre says, “but Bahorel needs me to referee a debate between her and Jehan. Are you going to sit here, or go talk?”

It’s a testament to how mild Combeferre can be that the final query doesn’t come out accusingly. “I might just stay here for a bit,” he admits.

She nods and gets up, leaving him to his reservations.

He doesn’t really know what he’s stressing about, to be entirely frank. There’s the irrational worry that his friends won’t like his father (proven false), whether his father likes his friends (mostly proven false), if he finished all his essays well enough (almost definitely not, he’s been so busy lately), Grantaire in general (justified) and a myriad of other inconsequentialities that make his heart rate rise and his breathing pick up. The fact that he’s worrying at a _party_ just makes him want to hit himself over the head.

Speak of the devil, Grantaire is just making his way over to him now.

“Another?” Enjolras asks, looking pointedly at the glass in Grantaire’s hand. He wants to add more, but he doesn’t have the words.

Grantaire smirks, that horrible faux-smile that Enjolras hates. “What? You expected something different?”

There’s an oddly bitter edge to it that Enjolras doesn’t understand.

“Look,” he says, exasperated suddenly. “I understand addiction. I know that it’s something you have to fight hard to even fight at all. But you can quit. _You_ can quit. You’re more than the shine at the bottom of a bottle, Grantaire, so yes, I did expect something different.”

“Your faith is as misplaced as ever.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t believe in. You don’t get that right.”

Grantaire laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s not a right, and anyway, it’s freedom of expression.”

Enjolras hates it when Grantaire uses that. He does it a lot, usually whenever Enjolras gets pissed at him, because it’s a defence that forces Enjolras into submission or hypocrisy. He doesn’t accept either.

“You don’t get to monopolise the concept of believing in someone,” he says, cold and calm. “I’m sorry if you thought you did, but you don’t, and you couldn’t stop me even if you tried.”

He can feel himself sink into anger, and before he can say something that really makes Grantaire want to throw him out the window, he stands up and retreats to his bedroom. At least there he can calm down and ward off the oncoming panic attack without having an audience.

 

* * *

 

 

He leans against the rail on his balcony, looking out over the city. There’s a cigarette dangling between his index and middle fingers, a guilty pleasure he regrets indulging in even as he brings it to his lips to take a drag. He wasn’t joking when he told Grantaire that he understood the predisposition to addiction; he also hadn’t been joking when he said quitting was possible.

It only surfaces when he’s so stressed that he is literally on the edge of a panic attack. Combeferre helps, too, but she’s having fun and Enjolras is loath to disturb her, if another simple answer is on hand.

The pack had been sitting unobtrusively in his side drawer, untouched since his last several months ago. It had been too easy to slip into old habits, and by now it doesn’t make much of a difference either way, so he lets the nicotine do its job and enjoys the night air. He can hear laughter from inside, and it calms him further, washing over him in a wave of second hand joy.

There’s a soft chuckle from somewhere behind him, likely the doorway, but he doesn’t turn to look. “You’re impossible, Enjolras.”

“I know.”

He heaves a sigh and watches as smoke whirls away in streams.

“I don’t understand it,” Grantaire says, coming up to stand next to him. His gaze rests heavy, and Enjolras takes another drag to compensate for the sudden increase of speed in his heartbeat. He should have known that escape would only last so long. He expects Grantaire to be bitter, or so painfully mockingly cynical, but his words are fond when he says, “How you can make even self-destruction look attractive. It’s impossible.”

Enjolras doesn’t like being called impossible. He’s been called impossible enough times before to give it painful connotations, and he says as much.

They rest there in silence. It’s a lovely night, Enjolras can admit that much. It’s warm, the summer air flowing in from where he knows the sea lies, and the sun is only just going down despite it being nine-thirty already.

He glances down and sees Grantaire’s fingers curled loosely around a cup of coffee. “Where’d you get that from?”

It’s an idle question, and he’s glad that Grantaire doesn’t take it aggressively. “Your stepfather,” he replies, raising it to his lips. “He’s a lovely man. Whizz with a coffee machine.”

Enjolras nods. “He is.”

Grantaire eyes him sidelong, his gaze pensive, and Enjolras shifts. “What’s the deal with your family, anyway? I mean, not to be intrusive or anything, but I thought Cosette was your sister, or is there some convoluted family history there?”

Enjolras chuckles, low in his throat, and taps his cigarette thoughtfully. “It’s convoluted family history, definitely. My parents were PACsed, they weren’t married, and… well, my father wasn’t the most loyal of fathers. I’m given to understand that he was a bit like Courfeyrac, if Courfeyrac had utterly no morals or sense of right and wrong. Charming, you know?”

Grantaire nods, and he continues, “I don’t remember him; he cheated on my mother and she left him. He took up with Cosette’s mother, and there’s a lot of history there too, but he left her in the end as well. Anyway, my mother met Papa when I was three, and they got married when I was seven. I still remember Mother trying to get me into a bridesmaid’s dress, which was a nightmare. I also remember hanging onto my mother’s dress in the photos, and stuffing myself on wedding cake.”

Grantaire laughs at that, and Enjolras finds himself smiling. “Mother wasn’t… she wasn’t quite the same, though. She was always distant, but it became worse and worse as I got older. I think I reminded her too much of my father; Félix Tholomyès, his name was. She… well, let’s just say that addiction runs in the family, and leave it at that. She died when I was sixteen. It was only when I was going through her things after the funeral that I learnt about Cosette, and it took a lot to try and find her and Monsieur Valjean. We were pretty sure we were siblings – it doesn’t take a genius to look at us and spot familial resemblance – but all it took was a bit of blood work and it was confirmed.”

“Where did the name Enjolras come from?” Grantaire asks. “Your mother’s family name?”

Enjolras nods. “Mother didn’t take Tholomyès’ name, and I took hers because I was assigned female at birth. I wasn’t going to change it just because I transitioned, although I did contemplate taking Papa’s name. But by then I was pretty much exclusively going by Enjolras so it seemed too much of a hassle. And…” He looks down, then takes another drag of the cigarette. “She wasn’t the best mother, but I do think she loved me, in her own way. It was a way to remember her.”

Grantaire is silent for a while, and Enjolras leaves him to his thoughts. He doesn’t talk about his mother often; he doesn’t see a reason to, as it never comes up in conversation and he doesn’t particularly enjoy reliving it. But it’s nice to have it out there, to have Grantaire understand. He enjoys it when Grantaire understands him, be those occasions far and few between.

They seem to be getting closer, now, though.

“I know I’m the last person to be lecturing, but you shouldn’t smoke,” says Grantaire. “I’d hate to lose you to something as petty as lung cancer.”

“I feel as though cancer sufferers wouldn’t appreciate you calling their suffering petty,” Enjolras remarks, but there’s humour in his words.

“You’re made for grander deaths.” Grantaire is almost definitely mocking him now. “A revolution paved in blood, or a defiant stand against a firing squad.”

Enjolras turns to face him properly, one arm tucked against the railing and the other resting on his hip. He feels his lips twitch in a smile, and he lets it slide free, the nicotine relaxing his hold on his countenance. “And where are you in all of these ‘grand deaths’?”

“Probably drinking somewhere,” he says, laughing into his mug as if illustrating his words. “Passed out in a bar, sleeping through the inevitable alcohol poisoning.”

Enjolras feels himself grow incessantly, inexplicably fond. “I don’t think so. I think you’d be right there next to me.”

Grantaire startles a little, his eyebrows raising and his eyes widening. He has a very expressive face, and Enjolras finds some measure of amusement in his reactions, although he does find source for consternation in the way his face sometimes lies, hiding the truth that seeps through his eyes. Grantaire does have very lovely eyes. “I think you overestimate me a little, Achilles.”

“Patroklos was just as brave, if not more so,” says Enjolras quietly, and Grantaire blushes something fierce. “Their names were said in tandem, because without balance they were nothing. There is something to be said for the importance of balance.”

Grantaire doesn’t seem to have a response for that, and Enjolras is content to let the matter rest.

He looks out towards the city once more, gently taps his cigarette free of ash, and then stubs it out on the ashtray resting on the rail.

He has no idea how long they stand there, soaking in the night air, until he checks his watch and notices that it’s just gone ten-thirty. He can’t quite bring himself to move, though. It’s so peaceful, and he wants to savour it while he can.

He feels a light touch to his arm, and he looks to see Grantaire eyeing him nervously. “Do you mind if I…” he trails off, gesturing for what is presumably a hug, although it’s a little hard to tell.

Enjolras shakes his head, and suddenly finds himself enfolded in a warm embrace. The height difference is even more pronounced, as Enjolras’ head barely reaches Grantaire’s collarbone, but he doesn’t find it uncomfortable. Rather, it’s like being surrounded by a soft heater, except it has a heartbeat, which is just level with Enjolras’ ear if he stretches onto his toes.

Maybe being small enough to go on children’s rides isn’t such an annoyance.

“It would be an honour to die with you, if you would permit it,” Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’ hair.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

His grip tightens, belying the lightness of his tone. Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

“By the way,” Grantaire says as he shrugs on his coat to leave. “Those were all mocktails.”

 

* * *

 

There are a few simple facts in Enjolras’ life.

  1.      He loves his stepfather, his sister, his friends, and Grantaire.
  2.      If Combeferre is actually worried about something, it is in everyone’s best interests to fix it immediately.
  3.      Courfeyrac and Cosette are not to be trusted. (Unless it’s to do with relationship advice.)
  4.      He can’t reach the top shelves of anything without losing his dignity so he doesn’t even try anymore.
  5.      Grantaire drives him crazy.



The problem is that he wants there to be a sixth.

~~6\. Grantaire loves him.~~


End file.
